


Holy Shit, It's Tom Cruise

by MaxWrite



Series: Hockey Night in Canada and Everything After [1]
Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Mission: Impossible (Movies) RPF, Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol RPF, Mission: Impossible RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxWrite/pseuds/MaxWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every now and then, working with Tom makes Simon want to pinch himself. Every now and then, Tom wants to pinch him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holy Shit, It's Tom Cruise

**Author's Note:**

> For [this kink meme prompt](http://ghotocol-kink.livejournal.com/1494.html?thread=39382#t39382): _"Tom/Simon RPS please."_ It's already posted there, but this version has been edited a bit.

So, you're sitting in a luxury box at a hockey game in Vancouver, Canada, with Tom Cruise.

There's no part of that sentence that Simon thinks sounds like it fits in his life.

And yet somehow here he is, sitting next to Tom while Tom explains the ins and outs of the game to him in hushed tones, his hands gesturing at the ice below like he's manipulating the futuristic screen of a computer in one of his films. And Simon nods and asks questions and generally pretends he cares about hockey, but who could give a shit about hockey, well, _ever_ really, but especially when you're _sitting next to Tom Cruise_?

 _Holy shit,_ Simon thinks, _sitting next to Tom Cruise at a hockey game._

They've been making a movie together, have spent months in each other's company. This shouldn't be so strange, but Simon still kind of wants to pinch himself.

Oh, there are times when he forgets, when Tom becomes just an ordinary bloke, someone Simon can laugh with, talk shop with, trade raunchy jokes with. Now, for example, Tom is explaining to Simon the meaning of the term "five for fighting".

"See that guy?" Tom says, pointing down at a player who's being escorted off the ice. "Five-minute penalty."

"'Cause he punched that other guy."

Tom nods. "Five for fighting."

Simon nods too. "All this time I thought that was just a band I didn't care for, but apparently it's a hockey term. Who knew?"

They look at each other and Tom grins at Simon, that inhumanly charming smile of his. This close up, it's impossible not to notice his lovely green-gray eyes, and this is when Simon is reminded, this is when it hits him in the gut like a sucker punch, when he is faced with that chiseled jaw and smoldering yet friendly gaze, that the man he is sitting next to is no mere mortal.

_Holy shit, Tom Cruise is smiling at my stupid joke._

"You okay?" Tom asks.

"Huh? Yeah, yeah, fine, just, erm, takin' it all in, you know? Hockey. It's so… violent."

"Yeah, it can be. Sorry about that, does it bother you?"

"Nah, I just never realized what serious business this game is in Canada."

"Yeah," Tom chuckles. "I think it was Craig Ferguson who said Canadians are a lovely bunch of people, but give 'em a hockey stick and they'll kill you."

Simon laughs a little too hard. He clears his throat and composes himself, tries to pay attention to the action happening down below. This task becomes rather difficult as Tom shimmies closer, his arm nudging against Simon's.

"You know," Tom says quietly, "sometimes I get the impression that I freak you out a little."

"Me? I mean, you? I mean, no, come on. I'm just, _pfft_ , well, yeah, you're kind of a big deal. I'm sure you've picked up on that, but nah, I'm fine. You're just Tom to me now. Tommy Boy. My mate." Simon says all this as Tom's proximity, the heat from his body invading Simon's space, makes Simon's tummy flutter something terrible.

"Simon," Tom says, his voice low. And then his hand touches Simon's thigh.

Simon sits back, raises his hands like he's at gunpoint and looks down at the hand. He remains perfectly still as though any sudden movements might make that hand explode and blast his legs clean off.

"I'm sorry," Tom says, raising his hand a bit. "Am I misreading you?"

Simon looks sidelong at him. His heart is thumping. What the fuck is happening? What universe is this? Because it ain't Simon's universe, that's for sure. Tom Cruise doesn't hit on Simon Pegg in the normal universe. Apparently Canada is chock full of worm holes to other dimensions that you can pass through at any given time without warning.

"Errr…" Simon begins, congratulating himself on sounding like an idiot. When he remembers what words are he asks, "What exactly is it that you've read, then?"

Tom retracts his hand. "I thought… I thought I saw something. In your eyes."

"When?"

"Just about every time you look at me."

Simon gulps. "What? What'd you see?"

Tom hesitates, then replies, "We'll call it… interest."

Simon finally lowers his hands. "I've been that obvious, then, have I?" He looks sheepishly at Tom and there's that smile again, making it nearly impossible for Simon to think clearly. Tom relaxes, now having confirmation that his assumption wasn't wrong. "So, if I may ask… is this a date?" Simon asks.

"Might be. If you want it to be."

Simon grins. "Does Tom Cruise expect his dates to put out?"

"Depends on the date. Depends on the person."

"What about me?"

"You? Oh, I can tell you're a huge slut."

Simon laughs. Tom is joking. But he's kind of right.

"So, I shouldn't have scoffed when you offered to buy dinner later on, then?" Simon asks.

Tom smirks and winks. "I suggest you get the lobster."

Now Simon really laughs, because Tom is flirting and implying _things_ and it's so fucking surreal, Simon gets another urge to discreetly pinch one of his own thighs. But then Tom's hand finds its way back to the thigh closest to him. He leans in, pretends to whisper something in Simon's ear, on the side that the cameras can't see, and instead of whispering he gives Simon's ear a kiss. Simon's mind goes blank.

Tom's tongue slips out and flicks at Simon's earlobe. He sucks the lobe into his mouth and Simon's eyes roll up into his head before he can stop them. He quickly remembers that cameras could be on them at any time and he wipes his face clean of expression, pretends Tom is saying something, tries desperately not to let his eyes unfocus or his mouth hang open. Tom's sucking moves down to his neck and Simon turns away from the window a bit, more towards Tom, because he's sure that anyone watching will be able to tell that this is not quiet conversation. This is makin' out, plain and simple, and Simon is trying desperately to hide that fact.

Simon actually moans as Tom sucks his neck, as Tom's hand finds his crotch. Simon spreads his legs, secure in the knowledge that everything below chest level is blocked from the view of everyone outside the box. Of course, with Tom touching him like this, it won't be necessary to see what his hand is doing to _know_ what his hand is doing. It'll be written all over Simon's face.

Somehow, Tom tears himself away, finally remembering where they are, and composes himself.

"Sorry," he says, wiping moisture from his mouth and glancing around shiftily as he settles back in his chair.

"'S all right," Simon replies, his voice a little higher than he'd like. He clears his throat and brings it back down to its normal register. "Who's winning, then?"

"I have no idea," Tom mutters, sounding as if hockey is the very last thing on his mind. Simon understands. Hockey's been the last thing on _his_ mind all night, but now it's not due to sheer boredom.

"Where are we going for dinner later?" Simon asks, changing the subject.

Tom doesn't answer, so Simon looks at him and finds that Tom has fixed him with a smoldering hot gaze that clearly says dinner will be postponed.

Simon is okay with this.

Somehow, they make it to Tom's hotel suite without ripping each other's clothes off. The ripping begins as soon as the room door clicks shut. And now Simon finally gets to feel the amazing biceps he's been eying for weeks while Tom's tongue probes his mouth and strong hands grip his waist. Just as he is wondering if Tom is a top or a bottom, Tom breaks the kiss, looks into his eyes and whispers, "How do you feel about fucking me?"

Simon's brain shuts down.

"I'm just wondering how I'm gonna get back to my own universe," he replies.

Tom frowns. "What?"

"Nothing. Yes. I'd love to."

It's over the desk first, Tom leaning forward and bracing himself on it, Simon behind him, sliding in carefully, the tightness and heat of Tom's body sucking him in, making his head swim. The sound of Tom struggling to take him doesn't help with the swimming head. Tom pants and groans as his hole clenches around Simon's dick. Simon pets his broad back to soothe him, blatantly feeling the muscles there as they roll like waves while Tom slowly arches and rocks back onto Simon's shaft.

"Good," Tom says breathlessly. "Now start moving, start out slow."

"You sure?" Simon murmurs, ready to pull out if he's not.

"Yeah, just… ah… go on… I want it."

 _Holy shit,_ Simon thinks, _Tom Cruise wants it._

Simon starts to move. Tom sighs and moans. Simon pushes in deep. Tom curses under his breath. He sounds so good, so hot, Simon needs to be closer to him. He leans over Tom's back, kisses his shoulder and reaches around to grip his dick.

"Yeah, oh, yeah," Tom sighs, his hips starting to move in time with Simon's thrusts. "Faster. Go for it. God, fuck me."

Simon happily obliges, pumping into him faster, harder, and stroking his cock for him, until they're both grunting, until Tom's back is slippery with sweat, until it's clear that Tom no longer feels any discomfort whatsoever. If his noises are any indication, his body is a well-muscled temple of pure pleasure.

"Don't make me come," Tom pants, gently taking Simon's hand from his cock. "Not yet."

Simon's restraint isn't nearly so impressive. He finally can't hold back any longer and comes hard, pushing against Tom with all the grace of a rutting animal.

He sags against Tom's back for a moment, then forces himself to pull out and straighten up. He is exhausted and dazed, and when Tom takes him in his arms and kisses him, Simon barely has the strength to respond. But he does, wrapping his arms around Tom's neck and holding on as Tom maneuvers them to the bed where Simon discovers why Tom didn't want to come just yet. After a thorough prepping by Tom's tongue and fingers (during which time, Simon reevaluates his views on the existence of God), Simon finds himself full of Tom Cruise's dick, his prostate being lovingly stroked again and again as he rides Tom. Tom takes his waist and helps him ride, pushes up into him every time Simon comes down, until Tom finally takes over completely, hips thrusting hard and fast, fucking his way to climax.

"Fuck," he groans as he comes. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, Simon, Jesus fucking Christ…"

Halle-fucking-lujah.

All Simon can do is hold on and watch the man beneath him lose control. And marvel at the fact that Tom Cruise ever does anything as normal and crude as fucking and blowing his wad.

Moments later, Tom goes quiet but for his panting, and Simon carefully disengages. Tom grunts as his dick comes free, and Simon lies down next to him.

"Thank you," Tom says, still catching his breath.

Simon smiles and looks at him. "For what, fucking you?"

"For everything. For a really nice, almost normal evening."

Oh, that's right. He's Tom Cruise. He doesn't have normal evenings out, the world won't allow that. Tom looks at him then and Simon can see the gratitude in his eyes.

"My pleasure," Simon replies. "If I may say, though, I wouldn't think I'd be your type."

"No? What's my type?"

"I dunno, someone more glamorous. Maybe someone younger."

Tom chuckles. "You _are_ younger, Simon."

"Yeah, but not that much younger."

"I think you're cute, all right?" Tom says matter-of-factly. "And you treat me like I'm a normal human being. I mean, sometimes I can see it in your face when you remember who I am, or who you _think_ I am, the movie star, the celebrity. But you hide it well enough. You realize I'm just a guy. And I appreciate that."

Simon is quiet. He doesn't think he remembers that nearly enough. He's been quietly freaking out around Tom since the day they met years ago, and suddenly Simon feels terribly guilty about that.

Tom rolls toward him and pulls him into a hug. Simon goes eagerly, opens his mouth when Tom kisses him, can't stop himself from thinking _Holy shit, just fucked Tom Cruise,_ and feels like a bit of a twat.

"Thank you," Tom whispers against his mouth, then he puts his head down and settles in to relax with Simon for a while.

 _Holy shit,_ Simon thinks as he stares at the ceiling, _basking in afterglow with Tom Cruise._

END


End file.
